Those Quirks and Kinks
by JamesLuver
Summary: Anna notices one of John's quirks; John discovers that a mundane activity is more exciting to Anna than he'd initially thought.


**A/N:** Prompted by a-rabbit-hearted-girl on Tumblr.

The first part of this prompt was inspired by Brendan Coyle himself. Gotta love the flails.

**Disclaimer:** None of it is mine. If only it was.

* * *

_Those Quirks and Kinks_

John had a habit of gesticulating when he was passionate about something.

It didn't happen very often, which Anna thought was the reason why she had picked up on it so easily in the first place. It had first come to her attention in the days following their initial move into the cottage, when he had been defending his need to help Thomas. It had fascinated her immediately; the way that his hands moved with purpose through the air, palms open, pleading with her to see reason.

She found that she couldn't help but try to feed that habit of his, loving the precision that he moved with. It took a while for him to fall for the secret bait. He didn't really seem to have strong views on politics, not like Mr. Branson, nor did he get too excited about the state of the economy. _It's terrible,_ he'd agreed, _but at least we're all right._

But then Anna stumbled across his weakness.

_Reading_.

She couldn't recall him ever getting as passionate about reading back when they'd lived at the big house. The two of them would spend hours together in the servants' hall, long after everyone else had retired, burning the candles low, taking it in turns to read to each other in low voices. John had remained perfectly still in those days. But something had changed now. Whether it was the more relaxed atmosphere of their own home or his new lightness of spirit after his incarceration, she didn't know. Either way, it didn't really matter. Because _now_ when John read something aloud to her that he was particularly enjoying, he would begin to move his hand. Usually, it would be the left, because he'd be using the right to prop the book open. They sometimes read together on the sofa, but they were more inclined to choose to go to bed instead, and Anna would lie there with her head propped against his chest or his shoulder or his arm, listening with one ear to his words as her eyes fixated upon his hand, though she had his routine memorised.

The fingers would move first, spreading and curling.

His forearm would tighten next, and her breath would sometimes catch at the sight of the muscle that would bulge when he did so.

His palm would begin to rise just slightly, then lower again. This action would always be repeated, growing in flair, until he was making sweeping gestures that matched the ardour in his voice.

The best part was, he didn't even _know_ that he was doing it. His eyes were completely focused upon the page, staring with an intensity that _almost_ rivalled the intensity that was in his gaze when he looked upon her. And that made it more fascinating than ever to Anna, to know that he was allowing his passion to peek through without even being aware of it.

And while it was endearing to watch, tracing the quickening of the pace, the lulls and the crescendos through the movements of his hands, there was an effective way of stopping him when she wanted that passion to be transferred to _her_. A few butterfly kisses against his neck, a hand curling through his chest hair…

Anna smiled to herself as John pressed himself down on her, book cast aside.

At least then he was using his hands to greater effect.

* * *

The first time that John had noticed Anna watching him shave, he had thought nothing of it. While he wasn't accustomed to such a thing happening – Vera had certainly never taken an interest – it wasn't entirely unbelievable. After all, he and Anna had spent enough time apart to last them a lifetime. Why shouldn't she follow him into the bathroom and perch on the edge of the metal tub as he worked meticulously, scrutinising his reflection?

The second time, John detected a specific kind of restlessness about her that he couldn't quite place. He couldn't pay full attention to her because he needed to focus on his razor, but he thought he saw her fidgeting frequently out of the corner of his eye. He didn't think much of it in the minutes following, however, because as soon as he'd done, Anna was dragging him back into the bedroom, making quick work of the clothes that he had put on.

He couldn't say that he minded.

The third time, however, he became even more acutely aware of the fact that there was something strange about his wife. She followed him into the bathroom as normal, sitting on the edge of the bath as had become her custom, watching him intensely as he set about gathering his shaving supplies.

He noted the way that she leaned forward when he made the first cut.

He noticed the way that her eyes darkened.

He saw the way that her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

He watched her squeeze her thighs together.

The answer was suddenly clear.

_Good God, she was finding it arousing. Somehow, the mundane activity of him shaving was _arousing_ her._

The idea was heady, and he found that his hand was shaking as he tried to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. Still, he couldn't help but seek Anna out through the mirror, watching the way that she was biting her lip softly, her eyes half-lidding –

He could concentrate no longer. Throwing the razor into the sink with a clatter, he turned quickly, stalking back towards her.

"Bedroom," he rumbled. "Now."

"Yes, sir," she said flirtatiously, but he could detect the eagerness beneath her nonchalance. She grasped his hand and pulled him along, and he wasted no time in beginning to lift up her nightgown.

"I've seen you, you know," he growled at her, lowering his lips to her jawline. "I know what my shaving does to you."

"Oh," she gasped, tilting her head to one side. "What does it do?"

He snaked his hand boldly down her front, parting her thighs. Heat greeted him, as he'd expected, and he raised his eyebrows at her. She didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed, and he felt a surge of desire at just how ready she was, simply by watching him shave.

He decided to forgo replying in favour of kissing her, and soon words ceased to matter.

* * *

"You know," he murmured later, amid tangled bed sheets and tangled limbs, "I'm beginning to think I should ban you from the bathroom when I'm shaving, otherwise I don't think we'll ever get anything done ever again."

She grinned mischievously, sinking her teeth into his newly-shaven chin. "I think never doing anything else ever again sounds very tempting indeed."


End file.
